Out of Africa
by Sadlady
Summary: Elements of Bodie's past turn a routine mission into something else. Doyle might just have to save the day


OUT OF AFRICA

Doyle rolled over and tried to locate the phone. The ringing had finally penetrated his slumber, and he fumbled about trying to locate the instrument.

Grabbing the receiver he answered, hoping the caller hadn't hung up in desperation. "Uh, Doyle," he answered, his voice thick with sleep.

He listened to the caller, his tiredness evaporating instantly.

"Gimme ten minutes. I'll meet you at the park."

It was still only 4.30am when Doyle screeched to a halt and leapt from his car. He ran across to the forbidding statue of some long dead soldier staring out over Greenwich Park, and found the head of CI5 waiting for him.

George Cowley was looking down towards the Thames, sluggish and grey in the mist.

"Doyle! About time. You said ten minutes."

Doyle glanced at his wristwatch. It was barely fifteen minutes ago he had answered the phone.

"Yeah well. Traffic," he said sarcastically.

Cowley scowled at the young agent.

"Enough of that laddie. We've got a problem."

Cowley pursed his lips and pointed towards the river.

"See that old freighter, down river near the Cutty Sark?"

Doyle squinted and nodded in assent.

"S'gettin' ready to leave. Lotta activity on board."

"Yes, and there's the problem," replied Cowley. "Somewhere on board is Bodie, and we don't know where."

Doyle looked up abruptly.

"Whaaat! How the hell did 'e get on board."

"Bodie was supposed to make contact with Marty Martell. There has been some talk of a group of mercenaries trying to get hold of a consignment of a ground to air missile fitted with a new type of guidance system. The system is top secret and officially its manufacture has been denied by the government. Mr Martell contacted Bodie and told him he'd heard that a contract was to be discussed tonight, and a deal brokered. This would cause embarrassment to Her Majesty's government, hence Bodie's involvement to stop the sale"

Doyle ran his hand through his hair, not that it made any difference to his look.

Cowley continued.

"Mr Martell telephoned my office an hour ago to say that Bodie had run into some unforeseen circumstances. Rather more of the opposition turned up than anticipated, and Bodie was unable to get off the freighter in time. Mr Martell has advised that the ship is bound for Marseilles . . ."

Doyle interrupted his boss.

"Bodie always liked a bit of French . . .!"

Cowley scowled at the irreverent comment, and sighed, his breath clearly visible in the cold morning air.

"That'll do Doyle. If Bodie is found onboard it won't go well for him. Some of the mercenaries worked for Krivas and have no doubt been told that Bodie was instrumental in sending that gentleman away for many, many years. It is also possible that he knows some of them from his work in Africa. "

Doyle whistled quietly to himself.

"Then I need to get on that ship and find him."

Cowley turned to look at the man.

"Aye you do, and there's a way to do it. The freighter needs to be guided out into the estuary. You'll be on the pilot boat that guides the ship out. I suggest you get down to the dockside as soon as possible. The pilot is waiting for you. He'll take you out to the ship and then it's up to you."

The men walked swiftly to Cowley's car. "I'll drive you down now. There's not much time. I'll follow you as closely as I can, but you'll be on your own. I won't call in the river police until you and Bodie are off the ship. The government cannot be seen to be involved in this – the technology is top secret."

The dour Scotsman started the car and drove swiftly through the park and out onto Greenwich High Road. Within five minutes, Doyle found himself running across the deserted quayside, towards the pilot boat. The captain beckoned to him.

"Come aboard Mr Doyle. We keep being asked the reasons for the delay. I've told them we have a small technical problem, but we don't want to raise suspicion any further."

As soon as Doyle was aboard, the pilot boat began chugging its way across the murky water. The pilot was busy on the radio talking to the ship's captain. Doyle sat on the hard seat and went through his options for getting on board. He studied the outline of the freighter as it sat at anchor. He noted the lines running from the bow and stern to the quayside, the heavy ropes straining against the bulk of the ship. He saw the metal staircase which ran up the side of the vessel. He looked around the deck. It was almost deserted, with only two men visible towards the stern. Doyle made up his mind.

"Can you get near enough for me to reach the running line at the stern? If I can shimmy up there, I'll be able to get onboard without being seen."

The pilot weighed up the plan.

"I can do that, but it's risky. Those ropes will be slick with water and slippery. You'll only get one chance for this. Good job the tide hasn't turned yet. It'll be easier to keep this boat steady. Mind you," he eyed a screen in front of him, "tide turns in ten minutes, and it's fast when it does."

The pilot boat chugged slowly along the river, and began to approach the hull of the freighter. Doyle silently climbed out onto the roof of the cabin. The pilot threw a pair of heavy duty gloves at him and called out softly.

"You'll need these, help you get a grip."

Doyle nodded his thanks.

As the pilot boat passed underneath the ropes, Doyle grasped the rough fibres and swung himself gently away from the boat, using the momentum of its speed to carry him away from the roof. For a few seconds he gently swung in the air, testing his grip and the tension his weight added to the lines. Slowly he began to pull himself up the rope, until he was able to climb aboard the rusty ship. Pausing to catch his breath, he quickly checked his gun.

Below he saw the pilot boat slowly pull ahead of the freighter. The bow lines had been loosened, and he knew that men would be coming aft to perform a similar function with the stern. Swiftly he moved towards a door, pulled it open and stared into the dimly lit interior of the ship.

Doyle had a little knowledge of ships, and the way around them. He assumed there were crew quarters, storage and engine rooms all below decks. The fact the freighter was an old container ship made his job easier, given that the main area of the hold was the size of a football field and quite empty. There were limited places for Bodie to hide, assuming of course that he had not yet been discovered.

Doyle slipped down the stairs to the lower deck of the ship. The corridors were cold and the lighting was weak and barely adequate. There were a number of doors leading off the corridor. Doyle tried the handles as he went, checking the cabins and finding them empty.

He continued moving quickly and quietly through the bowels of the ship, stopping only when he heard voices. He pressed himself into a small alcove and prayed he wouldn't be discovered.

He listened hard as the approaching men moved nearer.

"Are you sure it's Bodie? It's been years since you last saw 'im." The voice sounded worried.

"Oh yeah, it's him. I spent three years with him. I'd know that bastard anywhere. Thought I could trust him with my life. Shame he wouldn't turn a blind eye to what went on. Did a runner after that. Krivas never forgave him for taking the girl either."

Doyle held his breath as they men passed within a few feet of him. The deep shadows would only offer cover for a short while, and he needed to find Bodie as soon as possible.

He followed the men soft footed as ever. He hoped they might lead him to his partner, as from the conversation, it seemed Bodie's luck hadn't held. The men walked to the last cabin and one pulled a key from his pocket. Doyle crept forwards, poking his head around the corner of the alcove. He saw the men enter the room and heard some muffled conversation.

Almost immediately the door opened again, and one of the men came out. He called back to his partner.

"The deal still goes ahead. We'll offload the missiles when we get to Marseilles. There's a customs guy there, with a very bad drug habit. He'll turn a blind eye for a couple of hours and a couple of grammes. Keep an eye on him," the man gestured into the room, "even cuffed he's dangerous." With that he shut the door and walked back towards Doyle.

Doyle played it straight. He sauntered along the corridor, carrying the dirty gloves he'd used to climb up the rope. He nodded at the man and carried on as if he had a job to do. The man caught him by the sleeve.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded. "All crew are barred from this area."

Doyle's answer was brief and violent. The man dropped like a stone, felled by a powerhouse blow, surprisingly forceful from such a slender man. Doyle caught the man before he touched the ground, and with a grunt, pulled the inert body towards the cabin. He rapped on the door smartly.

As the door opened, he kicked it with all the force he could muster, sending the second man flailing backwards. He hit his head against the table with a sickening thud, and crumpled into a heap on the floor. Swiftly Doyle pulled in the other man closed the door and unceremoniously dumped him next to his colleague. He checked both men over before straightening and taking stock of the situation.

A deep voice broke the silence.

"You took yer time, sunshine. I was beginning to wonder if you were actually gonna bother to come and get me."

Doyle swung round to see Bodie tied to a chair, his shirt off, and an array of bruises across his chest. His broad back bore the signs of a beating and a trickle of blood ran down his face from a cut over his eye. One forearm was studded with small round burns. However, the big man was alert and making the best of his situation.

Doyle quickly loosened the ropes that bound his friend. Bodie stood and grabbed his shirt, pulling the garment over his battered body.

Doyle spoke. "Had to get out of a warm bed for this. Thought it was about time I rescued you for a change, mate," he joked. "Can you stand?"

Bodie looked at Doyle as if he was mad.

"Of course I can stand" I've been used as an ashtray, not lost the use of me legs." Bodie stood up, rubbing his wrists and ankles briskly. He turned round and squinted at Doyle.

"Just a warm bed? Must be losing yer touch! There's some rope under the bunk. Enough to tie these two up. Help me Doyle."

Together the partners tied up the two unconscious men and rolled them both under the bunk.

Bodie rubbed a bruised cheekbone and checked his torso for other injuries, probing his forearm gently.

"Good job Claire's a nurse. Nothing she can't kiss better," he said, "I'll look forward to that. Now, what exactly are you doing here Doyle?"

Doyle explained about the phone call and Marty Martell's information. Bodie nodded sagely.

"There are six missiles on board, sold to a group of mercenaries for some dirty war in the Middle East. The money has already exchange hands, and all that remains is the delivery. That'll be in Marseilles. From there, they'll be driven overland to Spain, and then stored until required. The men used to work for Krivas. Those two," he gestured to the two men under the bunk, worked in Africa some years ago, and Jobson recognised me. The leader is Mason, he's with the captain."

Doyle spoke.

"Yeah, I 'eard. Something about you not standing by and letting something happen, and a girl."

Bodie grunted.

"Hmm, something like that. Best left to lie as well." His tone inferred that the subject was off limits.

_For now at least,_ thought Doyle.

The most immediate problem was to stop the ship from entering international waters. Doyle glanced out of the porthole. The ship was moving slowly down river, and all Doyle could see was silent warehouses and derelict factories, some having incurred such terrible damage during the last war, they had never been used again. It was eerie floating along in the early morning light. Doyle checked his watch. It was coming up to six o' clock, but he couldn't see any signs of life. The roads were quiet, and with a sinking feeling he couldn't spot Cowley's car.

"Gotta plan?" asked Bodie. He was pacing around the small cabin, searching for a weapon.

Doyle shrugged his shoulders.

"Nah. Was told to find and rescue you. Nothing about getting off a boat."

Bodie raised an elegant eyebrow.

"Figures. Wouldn't expect you to tax your brain too much. Where are we?"

Doyle stole another glance.

"I reckon we're coming up to Woolwich. I can see where they're startin' to build that flood barrier. Lots of barges, cranes an' stuff. No one around though."

He looked across at his partner.

"Not much we can do right now. Tide's turned and is flowing down river. Current will be strong; could be difficult to swim against."

Bodie sat on the bed, rubbing his wrists. His usual genial expression had gone, to be replaced with a look of grim determination.

"Doyle, we can't let those missiles get through to their destination. I reckon Krivas' mob it still active and they are they buyers. He always favoured working in Africa and the Middle East. That's where the money is."

"Very laudable mate. We're stuck in the middle of the Thames somewhere south of civilisation. No sign of any back up, a bunch of mercs and a slightly damaged partner. Odds are definitely in our favour."

Doyle's sarcasm brought a ghost of a smile to Bodie. However, the problem was very real and both knew they had to find a solution.

"Where are the missiles now?" asked Doyle, "The hold is empty, so are the cabins on this level. Checked 'em when I was looking for you"."

Bodie pursed his lips and thought.

"They are around here somewhere. This area is out of bounds for the rest of the crew, I overheard Mason laying down the law to the captain. They don't take up much room . . . they aren't big or heavy . . . probably launched from a hand held device."

Doyle thought aloud.

"In the scheme of things, there doesn't seem to be much of a problem then.

Bodie shook his head sadly.

"Oh dear me sunshine, you obviously haven't been reading 'Mercenary News' then," he quipped. "This new guidance system, it's smaller than a matchbox. hey are the most up to date weapon around, can cause more damage than you after a few brandies and are worth a small fortune to whoever gets them first."

Doyle's only reply was a low whistle.

The ship continued its way down river, sluggishly moving through the dark oily water. The CI5 agents quickly scouted around the cabin, assessing and discarding what could be used to their advantage. Doyle found an oily rag, and tearing it in half, used it to gag both the guards. He also told his partner how the guard had challenged him in the corridor.

Bodie sat on the bed.

"Cuts down our search area then. If they have given orders that no one should be here, it's a safe bet there's something they don't want found."

Doyle chewed his thumb thoughtfully.

"It'd be easier to sabotage them rather than try and get them off the ship. At least that way they can't be used."

Bodie considered his reply.

"Yes it would. Remove the system from each one and they'd be useless to the buyer. They are too new – it works against them. There are very few spare parts on the legal market yet, so any questionable purchase of parts would ring bells anywhere in the world, apart from being almost unaffordable. Well done sunshine, there's more to you than meets the eye."

"So all we do is find 'em, remove the systems, get off the ship and let it carry on to its destination. When the buyers find out they've bought duds, they'll deal with the sellers and we'll be sitting pretty!"

Bodie gave a twisted smile.

"Oh Doyle, what a sheltered life you've led. This lot have long memories and an even longer reach. You'd be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life."

"Like you then," retorted Doyle. "What was it with you and Krivas?"

Bodie ignored his partner's comment.

"We have to find some way of stopping the ship. Stop it getting to international waters. Once the buyers hear their merchandise is no more, they'll look elsewhere. Not an ideal situation, but it's the best we can hope for."

"C'mon then mate," said Doyle moving to the door, "Time to catch some bad guys."

Doyle opened the door quietly and peered out into the corridor. part from the muted chugging from the engines there was no other noise. It seemed the ship was deserted. Moving swiftly and silently the two agents checked the adjoining cabins. All were dark and empty. Bodie spoke tersely. "Did you see any storage lockers on your way in?"

Doyle motioned towards the alcove where he had hidden earlier.

"There's a door there."

They ran back towards the gloomy little recess. Bodie tugged at the door, swearing quietly when it wouldn't open. Doyle pulled at his friend's sleeve, and pointed towards the padlock.

Bodie managed to look somewhat sheepish, as Doyle produced a set of skeleton keys and busied himself picking the lock. It soon fell open and Doyle gave his most winsome smile.

"Yeah, well we weren't all Boy Scouts," said Bodie sourly.

He opened the door and looked inside. Touching a forefinger to his lips, he motioned towards two zippered cases. Doyle leant in and pulled them towards the door. Bodie carefully unzipped the first bag, and took a look.

Without a word, he nodded to Doyle, who carefully lifted out one of the missiles. On the top was a small sliding flap. Doyle eased it back and took a look at the new guidance system. As Bodie had predicted, it was no bigger than a matchbox. Doyle began to scrabble at the device with in fingers, before noticing that it slotted into the weapon with a small 'click'.

Bodie pursed his lips while studying the system.

"Marvellous what they can do nowadays. iniaturisation, new technology, makes warfare even more impersonal than ever. Kill people without ever seeing them. Salves all our consciences!"

Doyle, ever practical, had begun to remove the devices while Bodie sat soliloquising

"What are we gonna do with these?" he asked. "Take 'em back to HQ an' let the boffins take a look?"

Bodie shook himself out of his reverie and turned to face his colleague.

"Should do, but if we don't get off this ship, I don't want these used. Best to break 'em up now."

Their conversation was interrupted by a bellow from along the corridor.

"You fuckin' morons! How the hell did you manage to lose Bodie?"

The answer was lost in a welter of raised voices, along with the sound of slapping and furniture being flung around.

Doyle smashed the guidance systems with the butt of his gun, and hurriedly collected the pieces together. Moving swiftly to the open deck, he threw them overboard. Quickly they replaced the bags and relocked the door, before padding softly up the steps to the top deck.

The two men ducked out of sight behind a lifeboat davit. Bodie scanned the immediate area quickly.

"Take a look over there," he said. "Can you see a car following the river? No lights."

Doyle squinted in the morning light, and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Looks like . . . Cowley!" he exclaimed.

The head of CI5 had managed to follow the ship down river, aware that his top team may be in more trouble than they realised. He knew once Doyle was on board, there were limited opportunities for him to get off. He trusted them absolutely to take stock of their situation – they would spot him, he was sure. However, he had no idea whether either man was hurt, or even if they had found the missiles. Therefore he doggedly followed the ship, keeping as close to the river bank as he could.

_Make your move soon_ he thought, _or you'll really be on your own._

Back on the ship, the two agents were sizing up the rapidly diminishing options. The ship was quiet, clearly operating with a skeleton crew. It continued its slow progress towards the estuary, but they still hadn't discovered how to get off the vessel. They were aware too, that the longer they stayed on board the more likely it was they would be caught.

Doyle sat there, eyes narrowed, staring at a length of chain, looped around a winch.

"What do you think the chances of fouling the propeller would be, if we were to drop that chain astern?" he said slowly, "

Bodie smiled lazily at his partner.

"Astern. Very nautical sunshine. All you need is a little sailor suit to complete the look. Mind you, it might work. One of us would have to shimmy down to make sure it catches on the propeller."

"Hm, well that would be me then," sighed Doyle. "Can't see you managing to do that in your current abused state."

Bodie nodded slowly in agreement.

"Have to lower it slowly. Hope that winch is greased or the noise will 'ave them runnin'. It's risky. If it works, and if it slows the ship down, we'll have to swim for the shore. Hopefully it is Cowley shadowing us, and the tide isn't too strong. Mind you we're almost out of options but I can't see any other way."

"I've 'eard you're quite good at breast stroke," replied Doyle cheekily.

Bodie gave a heavy sigh and shook his head.

Minutes later, they crept to the stern of the ship, and very slowly began to pay out the heavy chain. As it reached the lowest level, Doyle nimbly swung himself over the side and began to work his way down the chain. Bodie watched anxiously, as his friend lowered himself nearer the water.

While Doyle was trying to position the chain so it would catch in the screws, Bodie was listening intently to the commotion coming from the front of the ship. Evidently Jobson was still looking for him as he heard shouted orders and threats. Jobson had ordered a systematic search of the ship.

"Check every cabin, every locker, and every storeroom. I want Bodie found. He's the icing on the cake. Van der Troep will pay anything to get his hands on him."

Grimly Bodie sneaked a look over the rails, all the while paying out more of the chain.

"Doyle, get a move on mate, he hissed. "The sooner we're off this boat the better."

"Stop complainin'. I'm almost there. Jus' . . . trying to swing it around . . . there done it!"

Almost immediately there was a shriek of tortured metal, as the chain caught and wrapped itself around the propeller. The ship began to judder and slow down, and imperceptibly it began to swing towards the right hand bank.

Without further ado, Bodie swung himself awkwardly over the side, wincing with pain from his wounds. He grabbed the chain and half fell, half slipped down, almost landing on top of Doyle, who was gamely hanging on, trying to steady the swing on the chain caused by the two men.

By now the ship was drifting, losing speed all the while. There was shouting and the sound of feet running along the upper decks.

"Won't be long before they see what's happened, and then they'll be looking for us," shouted Bodie above the noise of screaming metal.

Without further ado, both men let go of the chain and dropped into the cold water, careful to avoid the suction as the ship swung round. They began to swim away from the ship, and towards the shoreline. Bodie, weakened by his earlier interrogation, began to lag behind. The pull from the tide was strong, and the shocking coldness of the water began to sap his strength even more. Gamely he struggled on, each stroke taking so much effort.

Doyle stopped and trod water, checking where his partner had got to. He saw Bodie fighting his way to the shore and making little progress. Taking stock of the situation, he knew there was no choice but to go back for his partner. Swimming back to Bodie, he motioned for the man to lie back and float. Putting his arms through Bodie's Doyle allowed the tide to pull his body underneath his partner and then scissor kicked his way to the river bank.

Exhausted, Doyle found a rope attached to a mooring ring. He grabbed on to it and held on to his partner. They clung on, buffeted by the strong tide, but at least away from the ship.

By this time the top deck was awash with lights, but for a different reason. Two police launches had drawn alongside, and the sound of shouting was heard. The early morning calm was shattered by the unmistakeable '_thwup'_ of a helicopter. Men swarmed down ropes from the aircraft, muzzle fire visible in the grey light.

The CI 5 agents raised their heads and took in the extraordinary scene. Bodie, spoke through chattering teeth.

"S-s-special Boat Service. Wa-wa-waterborne SAS."

Even as he spoke, the agents saw uniformed men, hanging over the wall and climbing down to help them to the river bank.

They collapsed on dry ground, exhausted and lay there side by side looking like a pair of drowned rats. Bodie's pale skin had taken on a blueish tinge, and Doyle's curls, weighted with water, hung below his shoulders.

Quickly they were covered with soft blankets and helped towards a waiting ambulance. In the background, Doyle could hear the measured tones of George Cowley. He turned round to see his boss talking with a group of men, some uniformed. Before he could say anything, he was helped into the ambulance, the door was closed and both agents were whisked away.

Later that morning, warm and dry again, Doyle wandered into a side ward where his partner lay in bed, resting. He wasn't badly hurt, but stiff and sore from his earlier beating. The small cigarette burns stood out livid and weeping, but thankfully not serious. He opened his eyes and stared at Doyle.

"Did we get 'em?" he asked, stifling a yawn.

Doyle nodded.

"All of 'em, and the missiles. Your mate Mason was killed and the rest just gave up. British prison's much nicer than an African one, and once they realised that, they were only too happy to chat to Cowley."

Bodie shifted around in the bed, and looked up at Doyle.

"Thanks for coming back for me. I'm not sure I could have reached the bank without your help.

Doyle smiled at the other man.

"Yeah, well, it was my turn to do the rescuin' and at least I didn't 'ave to perform mouth to mouth."

"You might've enjoyed it," came the sleepy rejoinder. "I'm a good kisser, me. Ask Claire."

Before Doyle could think up a suitable reply, his partner closed his eyes and fell asleep.


End file.
